


A Hunter; Not A Healer

by Vevici



Series: On the Warden-Commander Vie Mahariel [3]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Mild Blood, Mild Gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 07:05:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5734120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vevici/pseuds/Vevici
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an ambush in the Deep Roads, Alistair and Mahariel gets separated from the group. What's more, Alistair was injured, and there is no one but Mahariel to tend to his wound. But Mahriel herself was not in her best condition.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Hunter; Not A Healer

Alistair bit back another curse as Mahariel stabbed him again. He turned his face away from the fire, from her, as he blinked the tears away. Try as he might to wipe the pain from his face, the sweat coating his body betrayed the strain his muscles bore to withstand the curved needle passing through his shoulder.

                “Sorry,” Mahariel said, eyes wide and focused on the six-inch cut that arched over Alistair’s left shoulder.

                She had been shaking ever since they managed to start a fire in the festering hole they clambered into to avoid the darkspawn; the trembling seemed to only get worse as she had discarded Alistair’s armour and peeled off his undershirt from his wound. In the months that Alistair got to know her, Mahariel had never been this out of her element; she kept her wits when they had been lulled into the Fade, and her composure never faltered when Redcliffe Village had been sieged. But now she struggled to hold a needle. The Deep Roads undid her like nothing else could.

                Alistair clenched his jaw as he felt the tread tug at his skin, followed by the needle’s sting. Mahariel drew away, reached for the wet cloth by the fire, then dabbed at the fresh blood around the cut.

                “Take a deep breath, Mahariel.”

                Her mouth snapped shut, seeming not to realize that she was practically panting. She inhaled through her nose, exhaled through her mouth. Alistair encouraged her to breathe slower, to fully fill her lungs, then to let go completely.

                “Sorry,” she said again. She picked up the needle dangling against Alistair’s arm. “I’m almost done. Bear with me a little more.”

                “You’re doing fine, Mahariel. Relax.” He gave the best pain-free grin he could muster.

                Considering his fellow Warden’s usual deftness and control, her handiwork on his shoulder was nowhere near fine. But that wasn’t what Mahariel needed to hear at the moment. They had been caught in an ambush, separated from the rest of the party, most likely lost in a network of tainted skeleton-ridden tunnels, and they were down to five poultices and entirely out of anaesthetic. Not to mention Alistair’s axe wound. No, Mahariel was in too much pressure as it were.

                “Blasted Hurlock,” he said, kicking at the rent pauldron by his feet. It clanged as it skidded across the floor.

                His shoulder jerked as Mahariel pulled the needle through the raw flesh one last time.

                “It’ll be an ugly scar. Uglier than it should have been had Wynn tended to it.”

                Alistair hummed. “Oh, I don’t know. A long gnarly scar would add to my manliness.”

                That got a shaky smile from her. Mahariel’s hand darted to the pack by her hip; it came away with a waterskin. Alistair shook his head.

                “You are not pouring Dwarven Ale on me.”

                “It’s wine. From Zevran.” She uncorked the container to offer Alistair a whiff.

                “Fine. But first…” He tilted his head as Mahariel filled his mouth with the warm liquid. He sloshed it around his mouth before he gulped it down. He braced his elbow on his knee, then nodded.

                He groaned as the wine raked at the swollen flesh held together only by a sloppy crisscross of thread. No, wait; better keep that 'sloppy' part to himself. The air turned heady, the scent of fermented grapes chasing away the tang of blood, just as its stains ran off his skin. Alistair could already feel the throb of his flesh, the fever on the surrounding skin.

                “By the Creators.”

                Alistair’s eyes snapped to Mahariel in time to see her take a swig of the wine. Then another. She threw the waterskin back into the pack. Her fingers were shaking again as she folded a clean linen into a neat square. She dunked it briefly into the boiling pot, flipped the cloth, then dabbed the remaining blood off Alistair’s shoulder. She was breathing through her mouth again. She hardly blinked.

                Alistair pulled her hand away. “I’ll do it.”

                Her fingers tightened on the cloth. “I’ll have to get used to this, Alistair. I should have done it sooner; I’ve been relying too much on Morrigan and Wynne.”

                Alistair traced his thumb over the green vein that ran down her wrist. Wrists that were barely more than half the size of his own, yet just as strong. Maybe even stronger. He let go of her, fingertips lingered on her skin, a silent encouragement.

                Still, he monitored her breathing; noted the intensity of her shaking. The less blood and less wine on his shoulder, the more Mahariel’s eyes widened, the more her nose stiffened. Alistair pinned his free hand under his thigh to resist shielding Mahariel’s eyes – to pull her away from all the ugliness and darkness.

                He said, “I have a question.”

                Her eyes flicked up to his face. “Just one?”

                He raised an eyebrow. “It’s a hard one. Might be scandalous.”

                “It never stopped you before.”

               Mahariel began to stand; she sank back down before she could even straighten her knees. Before Alistair could persuade her to let him take care of himself, she brushed her knuckles along his jaw, light against the scruff. Then she willed herself to her feet. Alistair waited as she threw the cloth by the fire, washed her hands with scalding water, and retrieved the dressing and the bandage from his pack. When she retook her place next to him, she popped the lid of the salve. They scrunched their noses in sync.

                “How come a Dalish hunter-  I mean, have you never stitched a wound before?”

                Mahariel paused in scooping up three fingers full of the pale green paste to look into his eyes.  The tips of her lips lifted, but her eyebrows drooped. She sighed as she applied the dressing, careful not to make direct contact with his skin.

                Alistair smiled at the way her little finger stuck out. The cool salve was a desperately needed relief on his burning shoulder, but the pungent odour he could do without.

                “I’m a hunter,” Mahariel said. “I track, I kill, I gut, I skin. But this…putting people together isn’t- wasn’t my job within the clan. I’ve seen worse injuries than this, of course, but never touched. Flesh and thread…”

                She shuddered, head dropping.

                Great. Now he'd done it. Alistair brushed back the strands that escaped her braid. “For what it‘s worth, you are doing a superb job in putting me back together.”

                Her smile still had a tightness to it, but at least the grizzly part of the work was done. She had the length of the stitches covered and the surrounding area coated. With a sigh, she unrolled the bandage, went to her knees as she wrapped it around his chest and over his shoulder, and back again.

                Only the crackling of fire, the bubbling of the water over it, and Mahariel’s occasional “argh” marked the passing of time; and they did so poorly. In the middle of the fighting and the running for their lives, Alistair had lost track of how long they had been missing. Maker, he didn’t even know if the others were in fact together, or if they had been separated from each other as well. Or if-

                “There.”

                “See, that wasn’t -”

                His words were muffled against her chest. On instinct, Alistair’s hand came up to hold the small of her back. Her fingers were tangled in his hair, and he could feel her lips on the crown of his head.

                “I don’t like stabbing you with a needle,” she said.

                “Funny you should say that; I don’t like being stabbed with a needle. Or with anything, for that matter.”

                One of her hands slid down to his nape, fingers massaging the strained muscles. “I’m going to have to do it again, won’t I?”

                Alistair rubbed circles on her back. _Their lifestyle trained her well,_ Duncan had told him once. Well, her new life seemed eager to continue her lessons.

                Alistair took Mahariel’s hand from his neck, twining their fingers, and kissed her palm. “You’ll do wonderfully, love.”


End file.
